The couple glanced at each other. “We’ll match whatever you’re offered,” Foucault said.

Lucy’s mouth worked, but she couldn’t manage any sound. She couldn’t sell it to the woman who had given it to her. She wanted to say she’d just give it back. But that would mean giving it up.

Frankie leaned over the counter, blue eyes burning. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Lucy felt trapped. But this woman would know about the book if anyone did. And Lucy needed to know. “I’ve started to dream about the book. I think about it every waking moment. Is . . . is it cursed or something? I mean, the way you just left it here when it was so valuable—were you passing it on to get rid of it?”

Frankie smiled. Suddenly she seemed sure of herself. “No, I had already decided to use the knowledge it contained to make me happy. I had all it could give me.”

“You do look happy,” Lucy whispered.

Henri looked to Frankie, then spoke to Lucy. “If you’re short of money, we know some influential people in the arts in San Francisco. We’ll spread the word about your shop.”

“Keep the book.” Frankie looked into Lucy’s eyes. “You’re meant to have it just as I was.”

And they left her a treasure. Sometimes she wished they hadn’t. The book had hold of her, no matter how much she pretended she wasn’t obsessed. She’d begun to make up fantastic stories about Frankie Suchet using the machine to make herself happy and what that might mean. She’d daydreamed about using the machine herself as if it really existed. Because ever since her father died, Lucy had been drifting, waiting for . . . something. She wanted what Frankie Suchet had. Certainty? Happiness? Lucy wanted that. She wanted her life transformed into something meaningful, even though she didn’t know what that meaning would be.